


Equilateral

by bea_meupscotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, F/M, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 01:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Triangles, Ginny remembers reading somewhere, are the most stable shape.





	Equilateral

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, man, this came to me in a dream and I wrote it in one sitting. I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters.
> 
> Like all good stories relying too heavily on triangle metaphors, there will be three chapters, one from the POV of each of our lovely points of the triangle. I appreciate your thoughts and reviews. Even though this was a bit of wild card dream fic, I found myself really attached to the idea and each of the characters in this iteration as I was writing it, so I'm really curious what you guys think.

Triangles, Ginny remembers reading somewhere, are the most stable shape. This is because they are rigid—each point is fixed, the distance between each side unchanging. They have been a triangle, fixed and unchanging, rigid and stable, for six months, which, she thinks, is a testament to the geometric principle in and of itself. 

Point one—Harry, her dear sweet Harry, with his bedhead hair and emerald eyes and his sharp wit and his easy smiles. Harry as she remembers him on their wedding day, looking at her from his spot on the top of the hill nearest the Burrow with something like awe, hands shaking so hard she can hear the rustling of the paper on which he’s written his vows even as she’s only walking past the fourth row. Harry who loves her, who holds her hand and makes her breakfast in the morning and kisses her forehead before they fall asleep at night, the father of her children who gave James his lopsided grin and his Seeker’s build and his utter disregard for authority and Al his messy hair and his mood swings and his brow that furrows unevenly when he frowns and Lily her bright green eyes and her sarcastic mouth and her rare but infectious laughter. Harry who desperately desires a certain grey-eyed man with a sharp jaw and a sharp tongue and hair the color of the first light on a winter morning, who can be both cold like ice and soft like powder snow. 

She doesn’t know how long Harry had wanted him, though as time has gone on, she suspects on some level that their twisted rivalry has meant Harry has wanted Draco Malfoy since before he knew what wanting was. Maybe that, she has wondered, is why Harry went after her and Cho, practically every Seeker at Hogwarts but the one he really wanted. It was easy to miss, maybe easy for Harry to ignore or her to pretend away, when they were young. First there was the war, and then they were both so eager to rush along to happy ever after, and then in predictably Weasley fashion she’d gotten pregnant so quickly, and then there were the kids, the daily hectic rush of feeding and clothing and managing and loving them, but then they were gone. Lily was at Hogwarts at last, and it was just Ginny and Harry at home again. And Ginny couldn’t help but notice the way that each of Harry’s kisses felt more distant than the last, notice the way that when they made love, he held himself above her, and right before he came he screwed his eyes shut tight in a way that made her think uncomfortably that he might be imagining someone else, notice the way that when she once tried to lean up and kiss him as he came, wrapping her arms around his neck, he’d jerked and a look of something that she didn’t want to identify as surprise and disappointment flashed across his face. She’d realized it was Malfoy at a charity fundraiser a year ago, when Harry got a little more drunk than he usually let himself, and she could read the way his breathing changed, his cheeks flushed just slightly, his eyes going just a little heavy-lidded as he looked at someone across the room, and she followed his gaze expecting to find and forgive the banal and the cliché—someone young, lithe, maybe a coworker, a junior Auror just a little more flirtatious than she had any right to be with the Head Auror, bright and limber and tempting—but instead found herself looking at—

Point two—Draco Malfoy, looking nearly the same as he does now, stepping into their bedroom, still wearing a suit and his dress robes. He’d worn a tie too, that night, though he doesn’t wear one to work most days and so isn’t now. The intervening decades have treated him well, smoothed the worst of his sharp edges. She watches him shoot her an unreadable glance before he meets Harry, who’s already up and crossing the room with hungry eyes, watches him the same way she’d watched him that first night, watched him for months after that night at the charity auction, until she put together the puzzle that is the second point of their triangle. Draco, regretful and aloof and matured, with his impeccably tailored robes and impeccably careful and ordered life except for the soft eyes he reserves for his son, does not return Harry’s heated gazes, but after months of watching she had learned that there is one thing that Draco Malfoy wants desperately, and that is Ginny Potter. 

She’d finally noticed a chink his oh so careful neutral facade of polite global interest as he looked the direction of the Potters, and her stomach had sunk initially at the heat in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the way his mouth had lingered on his wine glass for a little too long, her mind and heart scrabbling to cope with the idea that Harry’s secret lust was mutual, when she’d realized that those too-sharp grey eyes were on _her_. The thrumming that had swept through her then had been half pleasure at being looked at like that again, at being desired, and half wild hope as a desperate plan had come together, because if there is one thing she knows about—

Point three—Ginny Potter—herself—it is that she loves Harry. She has loved him since she was eleven years old and he hadn’t laughed at her for putting her elbow in the butter dish, and she had spent the past year wondering how on earth she could keep Harry for herself when she knew he wasn’t happy with her any more, and now, now, it is all wildly perfect, because she can give him the one thing that he wants—Draco Malfoy. Speaking of, he is kissing Harry now, his perfectly smoothed platinum hair mussed and wild from Harry’s desperate hands, a familiar flush rising high on his cheeks, and the look that he shoots her over Harry’s shoulder reminds her of the look that he’d given her that first time she’d approached him. The first, but not the last, time she’d told herself that it was selfless, not selfish, to do this for Harry, to give part of him up to keep him. She’d been meeting Draco’s secret looks across the room at events for months by then, biting her lip and watching his eyes darken, her dresses getting tighter and shorter and showing off the body she’d sweated and charmed her way into when she’d thought Harry had just wanted tighter, tauter, younger, until when she left Harry talking to Ron and walked towards a dark hallway with a significant glance Malfoy’s direction, he’d followed her like a magnet. He’d been respectful though, hovering just a breath away from touching her, every breath begging for permission—permission she’d given, with a twist, with a catch. The only way he would ever get her was with Harry, too. A white lie—that they wanted him together, that they _both_ wanted him. From the look in his eye, she’d known as soon as she said it that a man like Draco Malfoy knew when he was being lied to, but he hadn’t called her bluff—not then, not now.

Watching them together, she wonders if he has never called her on her lie because he can sense that it is becoming a truth. Certainly, she acknowledges as she comes around to stand behind her husband, forcing him to pause in his desperate disrobing of Draco so that she can peel his grey t-shirt off of him and press her lips to his shoulder, his neck, his ear, she can appreciate Draco Malfoy. It hadn’t taken six months of sex for her to acknowledge he was attractive. No, the first time she’d led Harry into their bedroom, her stomach knotting itself in anxiety, to reveal Draco laying on their bed, long legs crossed in front of him and arms behind his head, unbuttoned halves of his shirt framing a chest altogether too defined for someone his age with as genteel a career as he had, each crease and cut gleaming in the play of light and shadow coming from the flickering candles he’d added in an inspired touch, Ginny had been able to acknowledge that Draco was a beautiful man. Six months of sex had taught her that, in addition to his fit body and his exquisite face, all high cheekbones and noble angles, strong jaw, strong nose, sharp and intense, he had a cock that made her stomach clench in desire every time she saw it, long, thick, lightly curving up in a way that she knew would press against her in the most delicious of ways if she ever let it, he had strong fingers, softer than hers or Harry’s, elegant in a way that made her think of a piano, and able to play her as easily as any instrument. She’d learned the noises he made when he was turned on, the way he was silent until he was close, but his jaw would clench with arousal, the groan that came from the back of his throat when something went oh so right, the stuttered gasp that meant he was close, a low moan when he came. She’d learned he is an intensely sensual man in every meaning of the word, obsessed with wringing every possible sensation from the body of his partner and then, because he is also that, obsessive, cataloguing it and storing it away for use to its greatest effect later. She’d watched the way he could build Harry up to soaring peaks of arousal, until he barely knows his own name, and then take him apart piece by piece, reducing her husband to a melting puddle of satisfied lust. He’s building to that already, she can tell, by the way that his hands have dropped out of her line of sight to smooth across her husband’s bare chest, probably trailing down, brushing just barely against his nipples, if the sharp of intake of Harry’s breath is anything, ghosting down his torso, tugging gently at the tangle of dark hair leading down from his navel, and then, judging by the way Harry jerks against her and groans, to palm his aching cock through his boxers. She sinks her teeth into Harry’s shoulder just to know that his broken gasp is this time because of her, and from the wicked grin that spreads across Draco’s face, he knows it.

So yes, she has come to find Draco Malfoy more than just attractive—she has come to want him, to want _this_, the three of them, give and take and stable triangles and all that. 

And Draco knows it, and she’d thought she’d hate him for figuring out the game, but, as Harry reaches back to intertwine his fingers with hers, as if she is his rock against the storm of sensation Draco is building in him as he lowers his perfectly aristocratic mouth to close around one of Harry’s nipples, she can’t muster an ounce of hatred for Draco Malfoy—just want. 

She comes around to the side of them then, reaching to where Harry’s half-clawed Draco’s trousers off in his hunger, and helps them both, first stripping Draco entirely, rewarding him with a brush of her hand against his cock that sends it twitching upward, a press of her breasts against his back as she circles him, close enough that he can feel her hardened nipples through the softness of her old sleep shirt, then reaching out to Harry, peeling the checkered boxers she got him last Christmas down his legs and revealing his cock, already leaking a drip of precum from the tip. When she leans down and swipes her thumb across the head of Harry’s cock to collect it and brings her thumb to her mouth, her tongue reaching out to swirl around the digit before she takes the whole thing in her mouth with a sucking pop, she is gratified to hear Harry grunt in pleasure—though, she acknowledges, that may be from the way that Draco has scraped his teeth along Harry’s nipple, the heat in his eyes ratcheting up a degree as his grey eyes fix on her mouth, her tongue. Under his watchful eye, she pulls off her shirt and steps out of her knickers, relishing in the soft exhale of his appreciation, the swift dilation of his pupils trained on her, her hands reaching up to palm her breasts and tweak her nipples, hyper focused even as Harry has reached down to take Draco’s cock in hand, pumping in a sharp, fast rhythm that Ginny has learned means Harry is impatient, has had desire simmering right at the surface for far too long. Harry and Ginny had sex two days ago—but Draco has been on vacation for the past two weeks. Ginny pretends like she doesn’t know what that means, and distracts herself from knowing by dropping to her knees next to them and taking Harry’s cock in her mouth. 

They both draw in breath at that, Harry jerking forward in a sudden thrust into her mouth, but Ginny just grins around him. Her eyes are closed, relishing the heavy heat of Harry inside of her mouth, the familiar musky masculine taste as she swirls her tongue over the head, the sound of heavy breathing above her, murmured swears, the filthy sound of her husband jerking off Draco Malfoy to her right. When a hand tangles in her hair, palm pressing against her scalp as long fingers massage her gently, guiding her, taking control of her pace, the heat rushes in a direct line from her scalp to her center, and she moans around Harry’s cock. Draco is good at this, too—taking control, directing them like pieces on a chess set, knowing what they each need and arranging them to the satisfaction of all. She wants to hate that, too often, he is directing Harry to touch _her_, to please _her_, to hate that he sees that she needs Harry’s attention as desperately as Harry needs Draco’s husky drawl and control, but she settled months ago on just being grateful that he is attentive enough to see her need and generous enough to satisfy it. At some point in six months of sex, she has learned that if she just lets go, Draco Malfoy will take care of her and Harry both. 

She feels Harry’s thighs trembling beneath her hands and then Draco’s hand has wrapped itself in her hair to pull her off of Harry’s jerking cock, though he apologizes with a soothing caress, tucking her hair behind her ear where it has come wild from his grip. 

“Bed,” he says, and she realizes it’s the first time any of them have spoken. “Lay down, Potter. You’re going to lick her cunt and let her fuck your face until she’s come, and then, if you’re good, if you can make her come, I’ll fuck you. Is that what you want?” 

As if he has to ask. 

Harry wants to do whatever Draco tells him to when his voice has gone that husky. Even Ginny can admit there’s something exquisitely filthy about that posh drawl hoarse and low with desire. She’s leaning over to straddle Harry’s face, to wrap her hands in his messy dark hair and brace herself on the mattress behind him, when she hears a soft tut and looks back to see Draco, eyes dark and pupils blown, standing between her husband’s splayed legs and looking for all the world like some kind of fallen angel come to tempt them into sin, shaking his head as he motions with one finger for her to turn around. 

She swallows heavily, but in the end she does as he asks. When Harry hooks his arms around her thighs and leans up to lap at her clit, and her eyes open on a sharp whine, it is to see grey eyes boring into her, staring into her as if he can see into her very soul. This is why she likes to face away from him—so that she can pretend that it is just her and Harry, that Harry is squirming against her dripping pussy because he wants her so badly, and not because she has seen Draco whisper a lubricating charm and reach down to slide one finger against his arsehole, teasing, probing, spreading. Every time she lets her eyes drift closed, Draco makes that soft noise of disapproval again, and Harry, attuned to every so much as breath that Draco takes, pulls away, the two of them working in tandem to wreck Ginny body and soul. Draco must have at least two fingers inside of Harry now, she can tell by the way Harry’s hips are twisting and bucking, his cock jerking and leaving smears of glistening precum on his dark skin, and, in a fit of pique, Ginny leans down and runs her tongue along the length of one, lapping the taste of Harry off of his abs. Draco groans wordlessly, throat working on a heavy swallow, eyes going nearly feral as he watches her. 

“Make her come _now_, Potter.” 

Within moments, Harry’s lips are wrapped around her clit, sucking at just the right pressure, just the right angle, for her to fall apart on a breathy moan, body shuddering and jerking as her cunt clenches around emptiness, eyes locked on Draco’s intense desperate gaze the whole time. He barely waits a breath before she sees him press his weeping cock to Harry and press inside in one long, deep stroke, his eyes going hazy and unfocused with pleasure even as Harry groans against her thigh, fingers clutching so hard they’ll leave bruises. Draco thrusts once, twice, and Ginny just watches, admiring the flex and press of muscles rippling beneath his pale, unblemished skin, Harry’s hips jerking down in an attempt to meet each thrust, to take more of Draco inside of him, his cock flushed impossibly dark red. She reaches out to take it in her hand, to give him the release he so desperately needs, when she hears another of those disapproving sounds from Draco. 

“He did make you come so well. Maybe he deserves a reward,” Draco says unevenly, pausing in his rhythm. At the pause Harry whines impatiently, but then Draco has wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and is giving Ginny a significant look, and Ginny understands. She goes to turn around, to slide down Harry’s body and sink onto his waiting cock—they have this done this before, let her ride Harry as Draco fucks him, Draco’s hands coming to her hips, first to control her pace, her motions on top of Harry, rolling her hips just the way he wants until Ginny is whimpering and Harry is coming with a yell and Ginny is watching his face contort in blissful agony beneath her, then to hold onto as he fucks into Harry hard, sharp, his fingers bruising her hips when he comes, forehead dropping against Ginny’s back. 

But, again, that tsk. She frowns before she realizes what he means, and with a pang of hesitation, some niggling feeling she can’t quite understand that she nonetheless ignores, she crawls down Harry’s body to hover over his cock, one arm on Draco’s shoulder for balance and support as she lets him guide Harry to line up and press against her center. 

The moment she sinks down onto Harry’s cock, taking all of it inside of her in one swift motion, she realizes she has made a mistake. 

Draco has never fucked her—she would never let him and he, knowing or sensing the limit, has never asked. They both seem to know it might cross some line, might shift some part of the triangle that none of them want shifted. Luckily, Harry much prefers to bottom, so Draco’s cock, deliciously upwardly curved as it may be, is usually otherwise occupied. On the rare occasions that Harry has topped Draco, usually Draco has his mouth and those elegant fingers buried in her cunt, making her writhe beneath him and come over and over, until Harry reaches around, hauls Draco back up against him, and jerks him off so that Draco comes all over her stomach and tits. Once, she took Draco in her mouth while Harry fucked him, letting each of Harry’s thrusts propel Draco deeper into her throat, Draco’s hands warm against her scalp, guiding her, tangling in her hair as he made increasingly needy noises in the back of his throat, the most vocal they’d ever heard him, until with a sudden groan he’d jerked her head back so that he could look her in the eye as he came down her throat, eyes wild and desperate. 

If that had felt too intimate, and coming from Harry’s mouth against her while looking him in the eye had felt like it would break her, this—this is soul destroying. She is sensitive from her last orgasm, flushed and heady and dizzy and full of Harry’s familiar cock, pressing inside of her at all the right angles, but she is a breath away from Draco, her hands on his hot skin to keep her balance, feeling the muscles of his shoulders flex underneath her hands as he grabs Harry’s legs and shrugs them under his elbows, hauls them up to spread Harry more, to press even closer to Ginny, until they are body to body, so unbearably close. 

This is a mistake, this is a mistake, a life ruining soul crushing mistake, and Ginny has never let Draco fuck her because while she has known for ages that Draco Malfoy wants her body, Ginny suspects that Draco Malfoy may want more than her body, may want her mind and her smile and her laugh and her anger, may love her. 

She has thought so in the way that, from almost the moment he realized his throaty drawl was as effective as a hand on his cock for Harry, he’d turned foreplay into a way to ask Ginny about her day, to make her hold a conversation with him as Harry’s head is buried in her pussy, asking her about her articles, her plans, her favorite places to eat and the vacations she’d take if she had all the time in the world. She has wondered since she overheard a wealthy donor to the Prophet, a high-ranking old Ministry official, criticizing the paper to Draco at some banquet, criticizing _her_ as nothing more than a glorified trophy wife hired for PR and not talent, and heard Draco cut the man down to size in quintessentially Malfoy manner, finishing by saying that, to the contrary, he thought that Ginny Potter was the best sports editor the Prophet had ever seen. She has thought maybe, because of the way that he stays after sex—not in bed with them, seeming to intuitively understand that Ginny craves this time with Harry, another careful piece of pretend, but, in acquiescing to Harry’s consistent request to stay, by going to another room and doing all of the things that Ginny wishes but has never told Draco she wishes Harry would do, the cooking, the dishes, making their lunch for the next day, putting fresh flowers in the vase on the kitchen table. She has suspected since Valentine’s Day, when sitting on her desk at the Prophet, together with the usual dozen roses from Harry, was a discreet black box, red bow, containing a silver and gold bracelet, metals intertwined in delicate twisted braiding, the perfect balance of simplicity and elegance, delicacy and strength. She has thought she could tell in the way that he looks at her now, which is different from the mere heat she saw when they first began having sex, but is now warm in a different way, intense, considering, admiring, at times reverent. 

And now, pressed against the length of her torso, Draco tilts his head and leans down to capture her lips in a kiss, and Ginny knows. 

They have kissed before, but only for Harry’s viewing pleasure. This is nothing like those times. She suddenly understands why Draco is quiet during sex, when he can say a thousand unspeakable words with one kiss. This is not rough, not possessive, not fierce in the slightest. Draco is kissing her—gently, fervently, worshipfully, one of his hands dropping Harry’s leg to cup her cheek in his palm, sweetly. In the middle of the what they are doing—both fucking her husband—she understands the innocence of the kiss for what it is, a message that _this_ is not that, not just another part of the scene for Harry, not for Harry, just for them. She knows she should break away, but she can’t, just opens her mouth on a desperate sigh, and then he is kissing her harder, his tongue slipping inside of her mouth, hand sliding from her cheek to her hair, his pace against Harry picking up, and Ginny is going to drown in Draco Malfoy, in his soft lips against her own, in his mouth that tastes of peppermint and scotch, in his unexpectedly soft hair brushing against her forehead, in the way that he grinds and twists his hips with each thrust to rub against her clit, in the fact that, for once, he is being deliciously vocal, groaning into her mouth and making needy little gasps against her. He drops Harry’s other leg to touch her breasts, and she can hear him swear under his breath as he palms one, his pace frantic now, his kisses sloppy and wild, his breath desperate against her until he drops her breast to rub at her clit, urgent but precise, because he has watched her come apart so many times now, with such careful focused attention, that he is an expert in all things Ginny’s body, and he knows just the way to circle around her clit and then flick upward to make her buck and come with a keening moan that he swallows with kisses. And Ginny knows that she has a made a mistake, has been outmaneuvered by a consummate Slytherin, because nothing is as life-ruiningly soul-breakingly exquisitely wonderful as feeling her orgasm wash over her, a wave of overwhelming heat, while wrapped around Draco Malfoy, and having him give one of those breathy, stuttering gasps, feeling his rhythm falter, and come with a nearly soundless gasp against her mouth, clever lips forming one word over and over—“Ginny”. 

She knows this is a mistake, because as she feels him come with her name on his lips, she feels something within her, her point of the triangle, suddenly, irrevocably, shift.


End file.
